


"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken."

by AbiIsTheBomb, SeahorseWithLaptop



Series: Game Of Thrones AU [2]
Category: EXO (Band), Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, F/M, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Racism, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 02:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10844478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbiIsTheBomb/pseuds/AbiIsTheBomb, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeahorseWithLaptop/pseuds/SeahorseWithLaptop
Summary: Jongin had known only happiness while living in Dorne: his family loved him, his subjects loved him, and his people loved him, so Jongin couldn't understand why lords and ladies further north did not love him. In fact, it baffled him how hated he and his family were. How his skin could twist from a badge of identification, of honour, to one of ridicule by crossing a border. They hated him before they knew him: they watched him from the ground as he peered at them from his pony between his guards, his young eyes wide open in curiosity. Their return gazes were hard and judgemental. The words of the pale, ghostlike lordlings were no less so.





	"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken."

Prince Jongin of Sunspear had lived in Westeros his entire life, residing in Dorne with his family who ruled over the Dornish people fairly and justly. Thus the people, in their adoration of the Martell dynasty, had given Jongin the nickname _Dorne’s Little Bloodrider_ due to the Dothraki blood on his mother's side and his unknown father. They didn’t find his distinctive dark skin and eyes foreign; instead, they reveled in the combination of his complexion with the delicate construction of his bones, an entirely Dornish trait. From the first time Jongin appeared publicly on horseback at the age of two, there were murals of him in tucked-away villages, quiet tales about his ability to calm a horse with a whisper.

Jongin had known only happiness while living in Dorne: his family loved him, his subjects loved him, and his people loved him, so Jongin couldn't understand why lords and ladies further north did not love him. In fact, it baffled him how hated he and his family were. How his skin could twist from a badge of identification, of honour, to one of ridicule by crossing a border. They hated him before they knew him: they watched him from the ground as he peered at them from his pony between his guards, his young eyes wide open in curiosity. Their return gazes were hard and judgemental. The words of the pale, ghostlike lordlings were no less so.

“They don’t hate you, my sweet.” Jongin’s mother’s voice calms a crying 6 year old Jongin and 8 year old Taemin, combing her soft fingers through both her sons’ hair wishing their tears away.

They had just come back from a long, tiring, and cold stay in Winterfell to celebrate Baekhyun Stark’s 5th nameday. Jongin claimed he’d never been so cold before but whether that was from the cold stares or the climate, he couldn't be sure.

“But I heard Lord Sehun call me a half breed!” Little Jongin cries, his fists balling in his mother's orange silk dress and fat tears streaming down his tan chubby face. “Am I really a monster?” His voice is shaky, quietly breaking his mother's heart.

“No. Prince Jongin.” She said firmly while taking Jongin's small hands into hers. “And Prince Taeminnie.” she pinches Taemin's cheeks earning her a giggle. “You are the future of this house. You are my sons, my children, blood of my blood. You are Martells, what are you?.”

Both boys answer in unison their little chests puffing up in pride. “We are Martells, Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.”

Their mother’s proud graze only breaks when she notices a small cut upon Jongin's hand.

“My sweet! what happened?” Concern floods her ebony eyes as she holds her youngest sons’ hands in hers.

“I-I it was an accident.”  The younger's eyes well up once more.

His mother, not wanting to upset her little bloodrider any further, does not press further, instead asking her handmaiden to take the boys for their bath and to fetch Maester Caleotte for some ointment for Jongin's hand. She has a good guess which little monster maimed her little boy. Sehun Of House Tyrell, blood of a Tyrell and blood of a Lannister, in her mind the worst mix of blood imaginable.

As Jongin slides himself into the sunken bath the smell of citrus fills his nose. The servant girls knew it’s Jongin’s favorite smell and like to indulge their little master. Due to Dorne’s arid heat, the balcony doors are always open, overlooking the water gardens. His mother, like she did now, liked to sit out on that balcony as they bathed, drinking her summer Dornish wine and telling them stories of Dothraki Khals conquering the great free cities of Essos, like the great Khal Drogo, whose son would be the stallion that mounts the world. When Jongin asked Luhan Of House Lannister what he thought of Khal Drogo, the elder boy told him he didn't have time to be told “stupid stories about stupid savages.”

But as he was out learning how to fight with a sword and be a man, little did Lord Luhan know that Jongin and his brother had been training in the art of archery since they were three years old and were able to ride bareback since the age of four, both Dothraki traditions zealously upheld by their mother.

“What story would my boys like today?” she asks as they splash each other, laughter and giggles echoing throughout the room and making their mothers’ handmaidens smile with adoration.

“The one about The Great Khal Drogo and his Khaleesi and her 3 dragons.” Jongin asks, wonder and excitement taking over his emotions, bright happy eyes staring up at his mother.

“But we’ve had this one a million times before!” Taemin whines. “What about the one where Robb Stark rides into battle on his direwolf!”

The boys settle on a different story altogether, one about Wargs and Greenseers. Jongin settles himself down into silken pillows, his brain heady with the smells of wine and pineapple, and lets his head droop onto Taemin’s skinny leg. The breeze kisses him gently as he listens to his mother’s deep tones and he idly wonders if this is the kind of happiness only reserved for royalty.

***4 Years Later***

 

When Jongin awakens he lies stiff, not hearing the sound of exotic birds — birds found nowhere else in Westeros—unpleasantly reminding him he's not in Dorne anymore, he’s in High Garden, with his head resting on his elder brother’s chest. Taemin has a knack for sneaking into Jongin’s bed without the guards knowing. Jongin admires his brother’s skills for not getting caught, since he’s sure that he would. Taemin, only a few years older, has developed a knack for the clandestine while Jongin continues to barrel down the halls at full volume, all the time.

 

“Taeminnie.” Jongin whispers, not wanting to startle his older brother but wanting him to get up all the same. He shakes the boy, causing a groan to lift from Taemin's lips.

 

“It's morning and you're in my bed again,” Jongin whines, feigning irritation with the current situation.

 

But before Jongin can rouse Taemin to awaken properly a member of their personal guard knocks at the door. (or what Jongin _hopes_ is a member of their personal guard and not a Tyrell Guard.)

 

Thankfully is is neither: Jongin's mother opens the door and smiles down at her two little sleepy princes.

 

“Good morning my sweets, breakfasts being served for all the little lords and ladies so I suggest you get dressed and head down.”

Jongin groaned and Taemin translated. “Why can’t we have it brought up to us like we do at home?”

Their mother crossed her arms and moved across the room toward them. At least _she_ smelled like home. “It’s an important diplomatic gesture to eat with the people who host you. You should remember that for the future, and you too, sleepy-head.” She was standing next to them now and rolling Jongin over to expose his chest to the cool breeze, laughing when he curled into Taemin for warmth. “I’ll see you two down there.”

It took a minimal amount of effort for the two boys to get ready with three servants each—they could stand with half-lidded eyes and throw phrases across the room at each other.

“Which one’s the Tyrell boy?”

“Yifan?”

“No, the other one.”

“Oh, you mean Sehun. He’s your age, Jongin.”

“We should put salt in his milk—I remember him at Baekhyun's 5th nameday, he cut my hand open.”

Taemin laughs. “I hear he’s likely to do that to you first.”

And so soon they’re tumbling down the stairs to the open, airy hall where breakfast steamed.

Jongin, looking towards the table noticed the lack of his favorite fruit causing him to pout but Taemin doesn't look to bothered and heads off to sit at the table between Baekhyun and Kyungsoo Of House Stark.

 

 

“Who invited the half-breed,” a monotone voice drawls from somewhere behind them.

 

Jongin’s eyes immediately widen at the insult and the giggle that follows. He has a good guess who's voice slithers up behind him belongs too even if it has been 4 years since he’s last heard its sniggering tone.

 

But he doesn’t have to look around long to find it, because before soon Prince Sehun Of House Tyrell is standing before him, smug smile filling his pale features. A girl hangs on his bony left arm, giggling — at what Jongin doesn’t know.

 

“Jongin! Its great to see you again after all this time.” Sehun smiles, but Jongin thinks it looks more like a smirk then a smile. He can tell it's a façade, along with that welcoming voice and that _hospitality—_ all fake.

 

“This is Soo Jung of House Tarly, Isn't she a beauty, have you met her? Or even heard of the Tarlys.” He tease, although Jongin would say it's a little more hostile the harmless teasing.

 

“Of course I have, House Tarly of Horn Hill, First in Battle.” He recites just as he would with his tutor and then smiles; just as fake. He takes the lady's hand in his laying a sweet kiss long her knuckles — just like he was taught.

 

“Prince Jongin Of Sunspear my lady, a pleasure.” Jongin musters up his most charming, charismatic and aristocratic smile he can.

 

She blushes.

 

“A pleasure to meet you too Prince Jongin.” She presents him with a small but polite curtsey. Her tutor must have made her practice that a thousand times, poor girl. “How is Dorne? I heard you people grow the most excellent fruit.” Jongin can't tell if she's really interested in the fruits of his country—her smile seems genuine but her aura seems off… like she doesn't really want to be here—more specifically, here with Jongin, talking to him. Like she has a thousand other exciting, ladylike things to be doing.

 

“Yes well, you’re not _really_ a prince are you.” Sehun sneers. “Soo Jung.” He turns to the other, taking her hand in his, albeit a little forcefully. “How about we go out to the gardens to enjoy what's left of the summer sun before spring arrives and leave this, this _imitation_ Prince,” He practically snarls, “to eat _my_ food and sit at _my_ table.”

 

The pair walk off, a couple of guards shadowing them fluidly. When they're out of earshot, Jongin lets out a breath he didn't realize he’d been holding in.

 

“Jonginnie!” Taemin’s voice is brimming with bright familiarity from across the hall. Jongin shakes himself, trying to rid himself of the hostile lordlings’ energy, and pads over to his brother, who has a place saved for him. “What?” The blonde can tell that something is wrong by Jongin’s petulant sneer.

 

“It smells weird,” Jongin replies, sitting reluctantly next to his brother eyeing the unseasoned slop. Taemin looked from Jongin down to the plates he’d gotten for them. Heaped on to them were pieces of dense bread and mushrooms he's familiar with these foods, but their not Dornish, he can tell by the lack of herbs and spices on the bread.

 

“Not so bad,” Taemin muttered, taking a piece of bread in his hand and holding it up to his nose. “Then again, I have to get used other foods if I want to travel Ruling Prince’s have to visit their entire kingdoms, you know, and the food in Northern Dorn is supposed to be very dull.”

 

Jongin scoffed. “ That’s why we’re princes! We get to eat whatever we want.” His head swiveled as he searched for his mother, but it was only lordlings in this hall, not adults. “I want some dates. I want some oranges.” He whines.

 

“I hear you two couldn’t digest a pigeon pie if your lives depended on it,” Jongin heard from across from them. It was a sullen-looking lordling with an attitude, kohl smeared at the corners of his eyes despite the early hour, his skin pale in the warm sunlight.

 

They sputtered together. “We eat meat all the time!”

 

“—We eat plenty of meat!”

 

“—Yeah!”

 

“You could probably use some colorful foods in your system _anyway,_ ” Jongin shot back at the lordling, pouting, his eyes running from his black hair to his delicate hands judgmentally.

 

The lordling narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean? Just because I’m not half-barbarian.” He directs his gaze to Jongin. “Doesn’t mean I can’t wield a _sword._ ”

 

“You couldn't wield a real sword if _your_ life depended on it.” That was Taemin, his voice cracking in innocent righteousness as he crossed his arms. “They’re as heavy as you are... Baekhyun of House Stark.”

 

Baekhyun stuck his tongue out at them and took a purposefully large bite of fatty bacon.

Jongin urged.

 

“Baekhyun don't be rude.” A deeper voice says from the behind a thick, dusty-looking book.

Jongin cranes his head to read the title— _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms._

 

Ah, a book he and his brother had been forced to read and memorize by their tutor for many years.

 

The boy, no bigger then Taemin places the book on the table and continues eating.

 

Jongin doesn’t know this boy, and he really should if he's to take the crown after his brother. As if Taemin can sense his brothers confusion, he starts an introduction.

 

“Jongin this is Kyungsoo Of House Stark and heir to Winterfell. He and I are the same age—you’re the same age as Baekhyun, we went to his 5th nameday celebration, remember?.”

 

Jongin nods.

 

“Shouldn't your brother know who me and Kyungsoo are already? Or do Dothraki offspring not like to be educated?” Baekhyun sasses. “I know everyone in this room, do you?” He asks Jongin, smirking as the tanned boy is silent.

 

“I know who my enemies and my allies are,” Jongin retorted, his high ten-year-old voice dropping to an unsettlingly cool tone, “But I’ll revise those assumptions as needed.” He raised his eyebrow at the Stark.

 

“Allies?” It was that drawl that set the hair on the back of Jongin’s neck on end. “You mean your brother?” Jongin turned to look at Sehun, who stood to the side, leaning near him against the buffet. He was smirking.

 

“ _He’s_ probably just nice to you out of pity, since you’d get kicked out if he didn’t need you for a playmate.” Soojung inspected her nails beside him. “It’s lucky your mom decided to have a proper full-blooded prince before she went off and... well, nevermind.” They tittered behind their hands.

 

Jongin sank in his seat, blushing furiously, and even Baekhyun avoided his eyes after the barb. Taemin was stiff beside him and they’d been inseparable for long enough that Jongin knew what that meant. Embarrassed as he was, he thought it was probably best not to get in a fight their first day in Highgarden.

 

“I still want dates,” he grumbled like Soojung hadn’t said anything. “There isn’t any taste in the world anymore. I’m going to my room to order them. Baekhyun. Kyungsoo.” He stood abruptly and nodded to the Starks, holding tightly to Taemin’s thin arm to tow his older brother away after him. As he passes Sehun he feels a puff on his cheek, a disdainful exhale of breath, so he allows himself to shoot a fiery glare over his shoulder at the lordling; whether he's the King's brother or not, at this point, Jongin doesn't care.

 

 

Once they’re in Jongin’s room, they sit in the youngers bed curled into each other for warmth and comfort.

 

“That was awfully rude of them—I’m sorry you had to hear that, I’m sure the older lords and ladies will treat you with the respect you deserve,” Taemin says as he brushes Jongin's fringe out of his eyes while smiling at his younger brother.

 

Jongin sighs, “I doubt it. I see their stares and disapprovals, Taemin—I’m a _bastard_.” He spits the word as if it’s poison. “I don’t even know who my father is, all I’ve been told is he's some Dothraki warrior from some random khalasar.”

 

“I’m glad you’re here, however you're here,” Taemin says quietly, his hair splayed out around him like a halo. “Not because I pity you. Your father might still be alive, but mine... I was just an infant, all alone while my mother was in Essos. At least she came back with you. I don’t think it’s such a bad thing at all.”

 

“ _You_ wouldn’t.” Jongin sighed. Somehow Taemin always managed to make everything he complained about into a positive. “My existence weakens mothers power as regent when it comes to foreign lords and ladies, you know that. That’s why your tutors are so hard on you.”

 

That got Taemin to chuckle. “Yeah, I envy you that. That line about allies and enemies was a good save.”

 

“Shut up.” Jongin hit his brother lightly on the chest, unable to hide a smile. But now Taemin was taunting him, reciting the names of all the lords and ladies at Highgarden for Yifan’ crowning as he tickled just above Jongin’s waist where he was ticklish. Eventually Jongin twisted out of his grip and leveraged them so that he straddled his brother, holding his hands down on either side of his head so they couldn’t be used to tickle him anymore.

 

“You’re forgetting Yifan of House Tyrell,” he said, relishing his victory despite Taemin’s apparent passivity in his position. When Jongin loosened his grip a little Taemin’s muscles jumped into action, trying to break free, but even at ten Jongin’s muscles were lithe and quick, and Taemin was just pinned farther down.

 

“Psh, It’s just the dothraki in you,” Taemin joked.

 

In Jongin's laughter his strength slackened and Jongin was pulled down into Taemin's arms, his ear parallel with Taemin's mouth.

 

“You’re my brother, and no matter what that fucker Sehun says, you’re worth more then him in every sense. Never forget that, Jonginnie.” Taemin finishes his proclamation with a kiss to Jongin's cheek, he lets the younger free, Jongin comes up a little out of  it, small puffs of air leaving his plush lips, tips of his ears red.

 

Taemin sighs and readjusts himself making Jongin shift on his waist.

 

“Are you excited for the crowning? I heard there's going to be a jousting competition, they don't joust in Dorne do they.”

 

“I don't understand it.” Jongin grumbles, disinterested. Dorne is not known at all for its jousting, simply because the people see it as a waste of time for warriors to dress up all glamorous just to poke large sticks at each other, The Dornish, consequently, quite like that the Dothraki Jongin likes their one on one single combat better.

 

“Don't grumble at me.” Taemin says poking Jongin's sides causing him to giggle and fall onto the bed beside the elder.

 

Jongin shuffles forward to lie his head on Taemin's chest. “I want to go home.”

 

“I know.” Taemin sighs as he threads his hands through Jongin's locks. “I want to too.”

 

 

 

 

Jongin’s mother was awfully forceful in telling the to boys to behave.

 

Jongin found it odd that she was never this stressed about anything; the boys usually admired their mother for keeping her cool at most social interventions. For a women hated by Westerosi society, she handled the other lords and ladies well. Her dress was appropriately purple but understated in its pastel lavender tone, unoffending even in the front row, where her position demanded her sit, her two heirs directly behind her.

 

The seats seemed a mile away as Jongin and Taemin passed through the arching doorway that soared so far above their heads Jongin could barely see the tip as he craned his head back.

 

“Never seen a door before, I see.”

 

Jongin snapped his head forward to face Sehun, but the lordling was already off toward his seat off behind Yifans’ large seat on the dial facing the crowd. And there _was_ a crowd; the noise bounced haphazardly around the room, filling its immense space with colorful robes from every corner of Westeros. Yifan was only seventeen but Jongin heard he could command a room with just his height and his presence. It was quite a room to command, if that was the case. He spotted the Starks in the benches across from theirs as they made their way down the aisle, dressed formally with fur draped around their necks. They looked unhappy in their unique ways—they looked hot. Baekhyun fidgets and Kyungsoo glowers.

 

Jongin lets out a breath as he sinks into his seat, Taemin’s warm vanilla scent calming him. The walk down the aisle had been a judgement walk, and only once they were seated did the nobles turn their attention to the next royals taking their seats. Jongin scanned the room idly, comparing it to the throne room in Dorne.

 

At home, glory and power was shown in the living plants that lined the room; the intricate carving and inlays of gold. Well, this room had gold in common, at least. Heavy tapestries told stories Jongin could vaguely recognize from lessons he’d slept through about Highgarden’s history. A heavy marble altar; gold inlaid on the intricately carved walls.

 

Sehun, sitting nearly directly across from him, smirking as he follows Jongin’s eyes, his smirk growing as he sees Jongin meet his eyes. Jongin’s fist clenches.

 

Jongin’s eyes dart away from Sehun and focus on the High Septon stepping out into the middle of the hall. He starts to clap his hands and soon silence ensues.

 

“First let us say a prayer to The Seven and thank them for this wondrous day.”

 

The lords and ladies close their eyes and begin to recite the prayer in unison with the Septon. Jongin doesn't know this prayer; his eyes wander to the Starks and they too are not praying— they worship the old gods. It’s well known Dorne is much more multicultural and multiracial then other parts of Westeros. They have Septs where people can worship The Seven but Jongin had never stepped inside those. His family leans more towards R'hllor, The Lord of Light—another reason for northerners to hate them,

 

“Thank you, we shall now begin.” The high Septon’s voice fills the room.

 

Yifan finally emerges from within the walls, his paces even and measured, his face a stony mask of royalty. He stops to stand imposing in front of the throne, the throne he’d had made just for himself, just for this day. It's less bold than the Iron Throne—more elegant and regal then powerful, aggressively stately and graceful. A marble throne perfect for a Tyrell, encrusted with emeralds and gold leaf—the perfect mediums through which to show off their house colours.

 

The High Septon’s voice begins, booming from beside the king-to-be. "Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the people of The Seven Kingdoms and the dominions thereto belonging, those the Small Council and The Seven having agreed upon, and to uphold the laws and customs of the same?"

"I solemnly promise and swear so to do." Yifan’s voice is strong and unwavering—Jongin admires his calmness. It’s cracked already, so despite Yifan’s relative youth, he sounds as much a man as any lord in the room.

"Will you act as the divine vessel of law and justice, with mercy, and execute all your judgements faithfully and to the fullest extent of your power?"

"I will." Enraptured, the room watched the recitation of a ceremony they knew by heart.

"Will you, to the utmost of your power uphold the laws of The Seven, the divine cannon of the Gospel and the reformed religion established by law, and will you endow unto the Septons of The Realm, and to the peoples committed to their charge, all such rights and privileges as by law pertain to them, and to preserve them in full faithfulness?"

"All this I promise to do."

Yifan places his hand on the altar over a seven pointed star.  "These things which I have here before these witnesses promised, I shall perform and keep; So may the Divine Powers Help Me.”

The almost crowned prince then moves purposefully to sit upon the jewel encrusted throne. The High Septon follows behind him and places the crown on his blond head.

"All hail His Grace, Yifan of Houses Tyrell and Lannister, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."  


The room erupts into an applause deafening to Jongin’s small ears, but the young prince joins in on the celebration, copying Taemin who's clapping vigorously. He peers around the room, scoping out the great houses—some, admittedly, more familiar to him than others. He’s familiar with the Lannisters, though, and he can see Luhan Of House Lannister eagerly clapping with the rest of his family; since he’s Sehun and Yifan’s cousin, Jongin doesn't like him, and the feeling is naturally mutual.

 

“Jongin pay attention.” Taemin reprimands, pinching the younger’s hip and causing Jongin to giggle. Reluctantly, he shifts his focus back to the celebration at hand with a sigh.

 

 

It’s the best sort of day to be outside: sunny and hot, the kind of day that has the Starks looking sweaty and uncomfortable, the kind of day in which Jongin feels perfectly at home. Taemin, for once, is absent from his side, no doubt crowding one knight or another trying to pick their brain. Jongin sat in the back top corner of the viewing benches, skinny arms draped languidly across the railing, his leg tapping insistently against the floor.

 

From his vantage point he could ignore the cliques of lordlings—particularly Sehun and his entourage, and watch the preparations: the two small tents and the horses gathered around them, saddled and draped in the respective colors of the families who the knights riding them represented. It was two matches before the one that really mattered—the match between Luhan and Yifan, two lords; one now named king, who had been competing with each other since they were children. The difference now was that Yifan was the king. Everyone was wondering whether Luhan would try to beat him or let him win.

 

The first two knights were both loyal bannermen of the Tyrells—in addition to their own crests they carried the white and gold crest of their lording family. Jongin watched, bored, as the horses pounded past each other, the metal from their armour glinting harshly into the stands piercingly. He didn’t even notice who won.

 

The next matchup surprised him, and he sat up in his seat in interest. One of the nights had a long black braid snaking down his back under his helmet: a Dothraki braid if the stories his mother had told him were true. But this knight carried the banners of the Lannisters. Jongin heard snickering from Sehun’s group beside him as the knight maneuvered into position across from the smaller, trim Tully knight.

 

“It’s rude to win fairly at the king’s own joust, you know.” Sehun’s voice floated toward him on heated air. Jongin stared even harder at the knights. _Don’t look at the stupid lordling._ The first pass was a draw and the horses wheeled to pass again.

 

“...you see, we gave the brute a small castle in the middle of nowhere, and now we get to bring him to the king’s coronation so that when he beats this Tully, they won’t be too intimidated. The man is half-Dothraki, after all.” Sehun’s voice is an insistent buzz in his ear, sounding closer than it really is; out of the corner of his eye Jongin can see the entourage are hanging off everything Sehun says— _it's pathetic_ .

 

The horses start toward each other with a rocking canter, slowly speeding into an all-out gallop. The Dothraki night was tilted slightly forward, his javelin steadily pointed toward the other knight’s stomach—until just before they connected, when he lifted it to slam the Tully in the chest. The other knight goes sprawling, rolling onto his side. Jongin hears a simpering groan drift up into the stands.

 

The Dothraki knight doesn’t take his helmet off, like they usually do. Instead, he dismounts and bows low to Lady Tyrell—honestly, Jongin doesn't remember her name. Then he made his way humbly off the field, and Jongin was left with a dry mouth.

 

But before Jongin can dwell on the thought of the Dothraki warrior a loud piercing horn is heard signalling that it's time for the real match—the match between His Grace King Yifan and Luhan of House Lannister, the king’s cousin.

 

Luhan was a fine knight, even for his untested age of 18. Jongin had heard stories of the young knight throwing down his enemies with his valyrian steel sword “Deer Catcher” in the blink of an eye and he's also heard the rumors of Luhan preferring the company of men— _a pillow biter,_ his mother had called it. She’d also made a point of telling her sons it was none of their business what kind of company young lords kept during cold nights. His horse was similar to him: nearly all white, with delicate legs and a lithe, compact body. Jongin doubts he’s going to forfeit any match; he’s too much a Lannister.

 

When Yifan emerges from his tent it’s to a polite roll of applause. His horse is a stamping Friesian, black and heavily muscled, tall like its rider. His silver—also valyrian steel sword “Oathkeeper” glistened in sun,light refractals twinkling in Jongin's eyes causing him to rub at them for second.

 

“Isn’t my brothers sword magnificent?” Sehun brags. The other lordlings and ladies agree wholeheartedly and, yeah, Jongin agreed too: it was. An emerald encrusted handle with gold swirls and an inscription carved into the steel itself “Growing Strong”—the Tyrells motto.

 

There’s another flourish of the trumpet before Yifan sets his horse loose. It’s plowing forward immediately, strong on the forehand with rippling muscles, its coat shining as it moves. Luhan’s horse is a quick flash, taking its time to ramp up to a speed Jongin isn’t used to following with his eyes, its legs a blur beneath it. The two riders are entirely focused on one another and everyone watching sits forward in their seats, holding their breath. For a terrifying moment it looks like they might simply knock one another off their horses, but some sort of complicated dance happens just before the horses shoot past one another and the javelins glance off armour with a loud clang.

 

Now Luhan’s horse is tossing its head, fighting the bit, and the nostrils of Yifan’s horse flare wide with each breath. They sail at one another again and again the same dance happens. Beneath their armour the two nights appear unshaken and determined, entirely focused on the task at hand.

 

The final pass happens in what feels like slow motion: the two horses launch straight into a gallop and it’s Luhan’s horse that is truly a force to be reckoned with, flying low and quick, meeting Yifan and his big gelding before they’re ready. Luhan’s javelin looks steady and even Jongin, with two (unsuccessful and largely embarrassing) jousting lessons under his belt, can see that Yifan is wide open. Out of the corner of his eye Jongin sees Sehun lean slightly forward eagerly.

 

The sound of a body hitting the ground is dull and sickening. A white, riderless Arabian canters to a confused halt on sun-scorched grass. Everyone in the stands lets out their breath.

 

Yifan gracefully dismounts from his Friesian stepping onto the grass with his right foot first, he turns to the animal and gives it a pat on the nose thanking him for his compliance?

 

The king then walks towards the panting body on the ground. As his boot comes into Luhan's line of sight the smaller looks up, taking the hand that's offered to him.

 

“You did well, my lord.” Yifan smiles, smacking Luhan on the arm in a brotherly fashion.

 

“Thank you Your Grace.” Luhan winces at the slap but smiles just the same, his eyes darting from the king to the stands to his horse and back. “A deserved win. You’ll make a fine king.”

 

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard more eloquent bullshit in my life.” Yifan flashes a rare half-smile. “I think this whole king business won’t be so bad. Come, the best part of a tourney is the refreshments afterward anyway.”

 

“Depends on your definition of _refreshments,_ ” Jongin heard Sehun mutter, the lordlings around him tittering.

 

“Hey Jongin!”

 

Jongin groans.

 

“Do you think that savage from earlier was your father? I mean, the resemblance was uncanny right? Maybe mommy will run away back to Essos again, hmm?” Sehun jokes, causing his cortège laugh obnoxiously.

 

“Seems to me that _savage_ could beat anybody in the field and still bow respectfully afterward,” Jongin replied despite himself, grinding his teeth. He kept his eyes averted, idly sweeping the landscape for Taemin.

 

“That’s because he’s part horse.” That wasn’t Sehun; it was a female voice Jongin didn’t catch sitting on his other side.

 

“Part horse?” One of the lordlings that followed Sehun around, a Frey, milky grey eyes wide as they passed between Sehun and Jongin.

 

A slow smile spread across Sehun’s face. “Indeed. They say they lay with their horses since they spend so much time with them. That’s probably why this one is so good at jousting.”

 

Jongin narrowed his eyes. “You _want_ to get pummeled, don’t you.”

 

Sehuns face turned a nasty shade of red and purple “How dare you talk to a prince like that! I’ll have your head for that _Prince Jongin_.” His voice takes a dark turn when it passes over Jongin's title—a title Sehun very much believes Jongin doesn't deserve .

 

“You don’t even know his _name!_ I’d like to see you _try_ to take my head without running to your brother. Or—how did you put it? Back to mommy?” Sehun is standing now, thin body shaking in rage. Jongin clambers onto the outside of the stands, hanging off them mockingly as Sehun advanced on him.

 

The moment Sehun made a swipe for him Jongin let go, sailing to the ground with a thud, his legs catching him gracefully in a crouch. Sehun’s face popped out above the stands above him, flushed in frustration. Jongin, ever the mature prince, stuck his tongue out.

 

Soon, Sehun had jumped down after him, nearly as graceful, and thrown the punch, his fist whistling past Jongin’s cheekbone as Jongin dodged. Then they were grappling, tumbling, and Jongin tripped Sehun and they were down in the dust, rolling like dueling snakes. Jongin tasted dust on his tongue. A knee connected with his ribcage. He got an elbow in the side of the other boy’s head.

 

Suddenly he was hauled backward by the back of his cotton tunic, stumbling unsteadily as Taemin held him up and then held him back. His muscles strained as he seethed. Across from him Sehun struggled in the king’s vice grip, the tips of his ears flaming, his eyes black and disdainful.

 

“Jongin, what are you thinking? You know he's the Prince!” Taemin's voice is sharp and quick, his face turning red with embarrassment. “Apologies, _now._ ” His brother speaks in a quiet hiss. His tone is hard and a bit high-strung—if this was any other situation Jongin might think his brother’s attitude was funny, but it isn’t.

 

From wheres he's being manhandled by his brother, Jongin can see Yifan and Sehun staring each other down. The king has a hard stern look and Sehun… with his petulant pout, Jongin feels triumphant when he notices Sehun's red face and glassy eyes— _serves him right,_ Jongin thinks.

 

He wishes he could hear what Yifan was saying—thankfully the king seems to be disinclined to discipline Sehun in the same discreet way as Taemin does Jongin; and he is, after all, the king.

 

Yifan's hands are on his brother’s shoulders, shaking them slightly as he reprimands the younger.

 

“What do you think you’re doing? Are you stupid? We need to make friends with the Dornish—not enemies! They have fifty thousand men willing to fight at our command! What do you think happens when we lose that fifty thousand, hmm?”

 

Sehun’s voice is tiny and sheepish. “Our military forces are weakened and and diplomatic tensions rise?”

 

“Yes, and right now you’ve just strained that relationship because you're an immature child. apologies _now._ ”

 

Jongin thinks Yifan's voice was much harsher than his own brother’s.

 

Sehun steps forward so he's a meter away from Jongin—not too close and not too far. He dusts off the front of his tunic, little pieces of sun-scorched grass falling at his feet.

 

“I'm sorry, Lord Jongin.” Sehun looks down, pushing the mud around with his shoe.

 

“ _Prince_ Jongin.” Yifan's harsh voice behind him scares him into straightening up, looking Jongin directly in the eye.

 

“I’m terribly sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you Prince Jongin—I hope it won't affect our future together.” Sehun says. Jongin thinks he almost sounds sincere—if he didn't know what Sehun was really like.

“Jongin, apologise too.” Taemin's soft, encouraging voice floats from behind him.

 

“I too—Prince Sehun, I am truly sorry for causing this debacle.”  

 

 

Jongin walks to the stable after his brawl with Sehun. There’s always a stable, even if he’s travelling, and his own horse there, who listens without judgement; just soft, gentle puffs of air. A tall chestnut gelding, warm blooded and always lazy after a big meal, R'hllor—named after the lord of light, stands quietly, eyelids drooping, and Jongin hurries down the aisle toward him.

 

He stops short after passing one of the larger, unoccupied stalls, backpedaling and peering into the straw-covered space. Evening sun filters through a small window in the wall. “Sehun?” It _is_ the lordling, alright, sitting on the ground, his back leaning on one of the crisp oak walls, his knees half-drawn up before him. He has a few pieces of straw in his hands that are half-braided.

 

The Tyrell prince’s head whips upward at the sound of Jongin’s voice. In the next moment he’s scrambling up, brushing the straw off his breeches, and rearranging his features into a pretentious scowl. “Jongin! What’re you doing here? Although I guess I should have guessed.”

 

“Please, not this again.” Jongin scoffed, walking past the lordling to his horse, who nickered slightly at his approach. “I’m not allowed to like horses now because my dad was Dothraki? What, are you here sulking? In an _empty_ stall? That’s almost worse.”

 

“It is not!” Sehun’s head popped out of his stall, the blonde catching the light of the sun down the hall.

 

“Sulking because big brother's leaving?” Jongin sneers, honestly that probably was a little harsh—Jongin knows he’d be sulky if it was _his_ brother leaving but Jongin had a mean streak when it came Sehun.

 

Sehun stares at him and Jongin watches a thousand retorts flash through his mind. Uncharacteristically, he replies with none of them, instead huffing at Jongin and leaning back against the stall. “I’m the brother to the king,” he said finally. “I can’t show that kind of emotion in public.” Then he seemed to think of something, and smirked. “Can’t give you a good beating in public, either, apparently.” And he’s on Jongin before Jongin’s horse could whinny a warning.

 

They fall into a pile of straw, rolling over as Jongin struggles to keep Sehun from pinning him down. Sehun’s muscles are limber and he seems to enjoy the rough and tumble. They roll together, throwing the occasional knee and elbow, through the dappled sunlight of the windows, smelling of horses.

 

Once, Sehun has to call “watch out!” as Jongin nearly propelled them into a heap of fresh horse dung. They rolled the opposite way and Jongin has to wrench himself from under Sehun’s weight. Jongin realizes they’re both laughing. He finally levers himself so that he’s straddling the Tyrell, his feet holding down his knees and his hands holding down his wrists. They stare at each other, panting. After a moment Jongin grins, a piece of hay drifting from his hair.

 

The sun is shining on Sehun's blond hair now a gold earring is twinkling in the sunlight and his liquid mahogany eyes pull Jongin in deeper.

 

“ _Yer zheanae_.” Jongin breathes out.

 

“Huh?”

 

“N-nothing.” Jongin's blush is evident—but if Sehun notices, he ignores it. “Got you.” He watches as Sehun focuses more on the unknown language that just entered his ears.

 

“Was that Dothraki?” He asks. The curiosity in Sehun's voice fills Jongin's ears and he wonders if he should tell the truth.

 

“...Yeah.”

 

“What did you say?” Sehun's voice has a high whine to it, Jongin thinks he sounds much more immature and cute that way.

 

“You’re an idiot.”

 

Sehun hits him on the side of the arm, but this time it’s lighter. “Rolling around in the straw is one thing,” he said sullenly. “At least I know how to use a fork and knife—What?” Jongin is trying to contain his laughter. “What?”

 

Jongin shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, bells in his voice, “It's just...You said... rolling around... in the... straw... which usually means... two people are...” he watched as Sehun’s face became red like the wine his mother drinks. Sehun surges up, forcing Jongin to bounce onto the ground next to him and brushing the hay off himself. He draws himself up like he's trying to regain some of his dignity.

 

Jongin stands after him, leonine and smirking, his skinny arms swinging smugly at his sides. “Where you goin’?” Jongin asks as Sehun turns around.

 

Sehun turns back, looks at Jongin, shrugs. “Not feeling like sulking anymore.” He licks his lips. “ _iksā gevie_ ,” he adds, his voice so soft it sounds like it might just be a mood of the wind.

 

Jongin tenses. “H-huh?”

 

Sehun smiles almost wryly. “It means you’re an idiot.” And with that the young prince leaves, leaving Jongin in silence.

 

~

 

Feasts with foreign lords and ladies aren't Jongin's—or Taemin's—idea of fun, to be honest. The cold icy glares directed at their bronzed skin, Jongin's blood, and Taemin's overly affectionate actions all make them feel isolated. Even though they have each other, the brothers can't curl into each other and deflect the animosity; that would make them look weak. And Jongin  _isn’t_ weak.

 

Traditionally, young lordlings and their lady counterparts sit with their houses. This year the Tyrells went with a different approach, sitting them all together regardless of house affiliation.

 

Jongin doesn't like this. He doesn't like this at all.

 

Not only is Taemin eight seats down from him sitting with the other older lords (like Luhan of House Lannister and Zitao Of House Targaryen), Prince Sehun's smug face is directly opposite him, eating his pigeon pie oh so elegantly.

 

“Is the pigeon pie not to your liking, Prince Jongin?” Soojung asks. She must have noticed Jongin’s untouched plate and his disused utensils. Knowing her, she probably thinks Jongin doesn't know how to use them—being a barbarian and all. She’s at Sehun's side again, her eyes following his as they skip around to judge this lord’s carriage and that lord’s speech pattern. She's a lovely looking girl, a little too frivolous for Jongin's liking, but wholly conscious of the benefits her looks and schooling endow her.

 

Jongin meets her eyes steadily. “In Dorne we associate pigeon pie with the middle and lower classes,” He replies steadily. “Pidgeon—such a common fowl.” And he says as he pitches his voice in a mocking copy of the snooty tones in Soojung’s voice. He smirks as Soojung’s eyebrow twitches. Sehun chuckles quietly beside her.

 

“Haven’t you been paying attention in your lessons? Oh wait, you never do. Always out with the horses,” Sehun cuts in. “How is a _ruler_ to understand his people if he does not understand at least what their table is like? What they taste? Refined, of course, by the very best chefs in the world.”

 

“Your chefs couldn’t prepare a decent lemon meringue if it hit them in the face or bit them in the ass,” Jongin retorts. He places a pea gently into his spoon (finally finding a _use_ for his spoon) and launches it at the two lordlings across from him.

 

Instead of landing in Sehun’s face, where Jongin intends, it bounces off the prince’s shoulder and rolls down into Soojung’s chest. Her face contorts as she hurriedly shimmies until whatever it is seems settled. Both Sehun and Jongin try to hide their laughter—Jongin tries less hard.

 

“The _gall_!” Soojung huffs, and directs a gaze full of hatred towards Jongin. “How dare you, you mannerless barbarian! I’ll have you and your brother lynched for that.” She sneers. The only emotion Jongin can sense and see is loathing, abhorrence—resentment. Silence falls between the two boys.

 

“If you're filthy whore mother hadn't returned from Essos when she left Dorne in a state of ruin my family would have taken Sunspear! I would have been a princess!” She’s crying now, she’s red faced and crying—Jongin thinks she's a pretty ugly cryer. Her fingernails are digging into the oak table and she shakes with anger.

 

Sehun coughs “Now Soojung, I don't think that's how a lady would act... why don't you take a sip of water and calm down in the gardens hmm? Take on of my guards with you.” He calls a guard: “Take Lady Soojung to the gardens, let her have some peace.”

 

“Yes young master.” The guard escorts Soojung out of the room. Soojung goes graciously, long neck held high, but she casts a toxic, loathing stare over her shoulder at Jongin with red-rimmed eyes.

 

“Wow, sorry about that Jongin, I don't know what came over her, usually she's a sweet girl. Apparently I’m to marry her when we come of age.” Sehun says it as if it's as casual as he's wording it.

 

“An arranged marriage?” Jongin asks curiously, his head tilting slightly.

 

“Yes, Jongin.”

 

“We don't have them much in Dorne. We prefer to marry who we like, girl  _or_ boy.”  

 

“Yes, I’m aware of your country's acceptance for such _things_.” Sehun's says but he doesn't sound disgusted Jongin notices.

 

“Such things?” Jongin asks, testing the waters.

 

“Pillow biters, Jongin.” Sehun sighs, taking a sip of his juice. Jongin swears he sees Sehun smirk a little when Jongin blushes lightly.

 

“’I prefer pillows to this pigeon pie,” Jongin mutters under his breath.

 

“They say my cousin Luhan is a pillow biter.”

 

“Yes I’ve heard abou—”

 

“I don't think that's a very appropriate subject to be talking about at the dinner table.” Yifan is hovering over Sehun, arms crossed. Sehun stares back at him unabashedly.

“Why not? We talk ab—”

“Sehun Tyrell, I _will_ send you straight to your chambers.”

“You’re not _that_ much older than me.”

Jongin watches the two brothers bicker in laid-back amusement. “I am the _king._ ” Yifan was leaning down now, his shadow flickering across the table.

The two boys wait to speak again until Yifan had retreated back to the head of the table, distracted by a very drunk Luhan attempting to flirt with Zitao Of House Targaryen. “I don’t think _I_ could ever marry her,” Jongin continues haughtily, as if Yifan had never interrupted their conversation about arranged marriages and Soojung. “For one thing she’s much too presumptuous.”

“ _She’s_ too presumptuous? You’re the guest here,” Sehun sneers. “You can’t be mean to my friends when you aren’t even _that,_ Jongin.”

Jongin’s stomach twists. He knew it was true: they’d done nothing but bicker and fight every chance they had, and Sehun hadn’t shown him a shred of kindness during his stay in Highgarden. Still, the words sting more than Sehun’s usual barbs. Jongin stands abruptly. Sehun follows his movements with sharp eyes.

“I’m full,” Jongin declares, watching as Sehun’s eyes go to his flat child’s stomach and then flick back up to his face in disbelief. “I think I’ll retire.”

Sehun scoffs. “Sure. Probably going to grill yourself some horse meat because the stuff here is too refined for you.” He says it loud enough for the lordling next to him to hear, but he barely smiles at the laughter the joke produces. Instead, Jongin feels the small blonde’s eyes on him as he storms out of the banquet chamber.

The next morning Jongin wakes up warm and finds Taemin almost falling off the other side of the bed next to him, his hair standing on end. He nudges his brother with a toe and the boy grunts. “ _What are you doing here?_ ” It’s a high, youthful whisper.

Taemin groans and rolls over, wiping a spot of drool from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t know this palace,” he mutters. “Weird... came here.”

Jongin sighs and flops back into bed. He’s surprised when he hears Taemin’s voice again; he thought his brother had gone to sleep. “What’s the deal with the king’s brother? You two are always talking.”

Jongin suddenly feels like the morning sunlight is too bright. “What, Oh Sehun. A little brat. He’s always on me. You know. Well, you don’t, but...”

“Yeah...” Taemin’s voice is skeptical, but he’s sleepy so he seems to let it slide. “Whatever. Just don’t let anybody tell you what makes you _you,_ kay?”

“Whatever. I’m hungry.”

“We’ll eat on the road, Jongin. Don’t you remember? The king leaves this morning for King’s Landing, and we leave straight after him.”

The King rides a different horse than his jousting horse, this one a large chestnut stallion at the head of what seems like an endless entourage of courtiers, attendants, guards, and wagons. Jongin can pick out Soojung’s reddish-dark hair watching in the crowd, and Sehun’s blonde from a spot in the front. His mother won’t let him watch long: only as long as was proper—as long as they need to be seen.

And then they’re being bustled off, into their cushioned carriage, with their own attendants who spoke their own familiar dialect and called him _prince_ , and only after an hour on the road playing games with Taemin did Jongin realize he hadn’t said goodbye to anyone in the palace.

Probably for the best, he told himself. They were meanies anyway.


End file.
